


Plain Speaking

by DragonTail



Series: Transformers: Distant Thunder [2]
Category: Transformers (Unicron Trilogy), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One, Transformers: Cybertron
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 10:35:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonTail/pseuds/DragonTail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/581395/chapters/1043759"><i>The Non-Combatant</i></a>, the ancient Transformer called Vector Prime and the Autobot journalist, Tow-Line, meet on the grassy plains of Earth once more. There is much to be discussed... and to be apologised for... but someone else involved in their first meeting is also en-route.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I stand, once again, on the grassy plains of Earth, knowing the folly of my ways.

A gentle breeze runs over the land and ruffles the grass. The tiny green fronds shimmy and move, but do not change. I am a Transformer, a being of metal from the planet Cybertron… yet I felt I had much in common with that grass. Time, space, events, history... these things, I reasoned, may run over and ruffle me, but could not change me.

I am Vector Prime. I am of the First… and I am very, very wrong.

In seeking to save the universe, I made a number of mistakes. The primary of these was surrendering to my shame. I lied when there was cause only for truth, and I bred distrust among those who deserved my allegiance. Though my primary task was accomplished, it was though no effort of my own. Those I had deceived banded together, showing far greater strength than I gave them credit for, and lopped off the head of vile evil.

The breeze of time _does_ change all things, including myself. I have learned from my brethren, from my fellow Transformers. Through their examples… their courage… I have grown and evolved – become more than a simple machine. Now, with my life’s purpose fulfilled, I am a warrior without a war. And so must I seek a place among them… the Autobots… and work to ease the pain caused by my tainted actions.

One, in particular, I have wounded deeply. The being who sits a short distance away from me now, hunched over and working on something hidden from my sight.

He is called Tow-Line and, without his forgiveness, I fear my place among the Autobots may be lost before I have truly secured it.

\-----

“Trust me, Kicker, this is gonna be so much better for everyone.”

Kicker jiggled the hose, trying to make it fit properly. “Everyone _except_ my wallet, Downshift,” he grimaced. “I mean, when are you planning on paying me back for all this gas?”

The Autobot chuckled, trying to keep his voice low. No sense spooking the other patrons of the gas station with a talking car. “Sorry, kid – I musta left my credit card in my other alt mode.”

“Just my luck,” Kicker smirked as the nozzle finally slipped into place. “The first test run of a fuel tank that converts petrol to Energon, and I get stuck with the bill.”

He squeezed the handle and watched numbers spin on the pump stand. Downshift turned his attention inward, using his sensors to follow the path of the crude fossil fuel. It had an unpleasant odour and, to his surprise, was mildly corrosive. Cybertronian metal, it seemed, had different tolerances than alloys made on Earth. He’d have to install some “ordinary” car piping into his friends before mass-marketing the conversion technology.

It was a simple enough idea. Rather than relying on Kicker to source Energon deposits for them, the Autobots could make their own fuel from local products. By the looks of things, there’d be Autobot teams heading out to Gigalonia, and perhaps even reinforcements for the group bound for Speedia. As a proud mad scientist, Downshift was determined to make life easier for his friends. This would be the ultimate in hazardous environment survival – living off the land, quite literally. 

“How much you want to take?” Kicker asked.

“That’ll do it,” Downshift said. “I’m a little worried about corrosives an’ such. Ten bucks worth oughta be enough to start with.”

“Okay,” Kicker nodded, slotting the nozzle back onto the pump. “I’ll pay, you stay.”

The Autobot chuckled again, watching his human friend walk into the gas station’s shopfront. How strange it was to be on a planet where energy sources were bought and sold amicably. Such a concept was alien to Transformers – their civil war had been based on control of such necessities. First Energon, then Mini-cons… if you deleted the politics and genetics from your database, it really came down to whom controlled the fuel.

Maybe it wasn’t that dissimilar from Earth. Kicker had told him about a country called Ethiopia, whose people had been battling malnutrition for generations. One of the biggest water sources in the world – the Nile – flowed right through their lands, but they were not allowed to drink from it. Desert countries, further downstream, had threatened to besiege the Ethiopian people if they took even a drop of water. And so a nation of people starved, all because those with the bigger guns were afraid of missing out.

Water. Energy. When you needed it to live, you did what you had to do.

His driver’s side door opened. Kicker slumped into Downshift’s plush leather interior and slammed the door shut. “You’re going to let me drive, right?” he grinned.

“If I get y’ customs correctly, the man who pays should be gettin’ a chance to do what he wants, right?”

Kicker strangled a laugh. “Don’t ever let Misha hear you say that.” He revved the engine, popped the clutch and drove them onto the open road.

\-----

He traced a finger across the luminous top of the data pad, frowned, and hurled the flat square away. “Bah,” he spat, taking a small measure of satisfaction in the way the disagreeable tool bounced. “Frell it all.”

Tow-Line leaned backward, stabbing his fists into the ground for support. That wasn’t enough, and so he ground the balled steel deeper and deeper into the charred earth, twisting his elbow joints to increase the torque. His frown turned to a scowl. “Frell it _all_ ,” he cried again, biting off every syllable. “To the Pit with the lot of them!”

They were idiots, damnable fools. Sure, Cybertron had been liberated. Okay, Primus’ final transformation had repaired them all – even Tow-Line’s ruined communications array. Fine, there was peace and plenty on their home world for the first time in millions of years and _blah, blah, blah_. Was that any excuse for the Autobots to switch off their processors, all at once, and be a bunch of dummies?

What about Thundercracker? There was a slagging Decepticon in their midst, waltzing around like he owned the place. He’d sworn to kill them all, if anyone cared to remember, as soon as Megatron had cashed in his skid plate. What, they were supposed to wait around for him to start the slaughter?

What about Override? She’d attacked everyone and risked the fate of the universe just to wrap her hands around a blasted Planet Key. The others who’d done that – Soundwave, Blender and Flame Convoy – had been treated as enemies and slagged. But Override wasn’t in a cell, oh no. She was hurtling back to Speedia with Rodimus, Blur and Swerve, all to fight some “hyper-accelerated” war she claimed had broken out!

Rodimus – now he was a problem, too. Punk kid gets Matrix, turns into a so-called leader and the Autobots just follow along, mouthing slag about destiny? Please! Had anyone stopped to ask how he’d been chosen, why they should follow his words, or how he’d manifested a blasted Force Chip of his own? Huh? No, of course not… anyone who asked _those_ sorts of questions would be called a fool.

The Autobots had enough fools without adding more to the tally. Like Bulkhead – Mister kick-you-in-the-gut. Mister lie-about-it-afterwards. At least he hadn’t been allowed to come on this salvage mission to Earth. Sifting the ruins of the Earthforce base was tiresome enough without having to watch out for a mental case every breem. The longer he was being evaluated in Red Alert’s repair bay, back on Cybertron, the better.

Tow-Line pulled his hands from the ground – crunching silt between his fingers – and rose to his feet. He stormed across the ruined plains toward his data pad. Soundwave’s devastation of the area was so complete, the journalist doubted anything would grow there again. Like Earthbase, it was a burned-out wasteland fit only for abandonment.

He was halfway to the pad when his communication array sounded its proximity alarm. Someone was coming and, according to the gentle _ping_ , that someone was friendly. For once glad his solitude had been interrupted, Tow-Line turned… and felt his emotions chip freeze.

A portal shimmered in the air before him, splitting open to allow Vector Prime to pass through. The ancient Transformer smiled awkwardly, stepped lightly to the ground and closed the gateway with a flick of his sword.

“Hello,” he said, almost shyly. “I was wondering if we could… talk.”

“Sure, padre,” Tow-Line sneered, crossing his arms over his chest. “Why not?”

“Padre?” Vector Prime asked. “I know not the reference.”

“Like _that’s_ a surprise. For someone who claims to have travelled through time and space, you don’t pay a whole lot of attention to your surroundings. Padre: human word for priest or leader of a religious fellowship. You know, like you pretended to be last time you and I spoke.”

The older robot looked uncomfortable. “Yeah, you remember – that line of malarkey you spun me, back out on the plains,” Tow-Line snapped. “The blasphemy of the Autobot symbol, the foolishness of war, the stupidity of attacking Unicron. _Forgive them, Primus, they know not what they do!_ and all that jazz. The religious act.”

Vector Prime reached out a hand. “Let me explain…”

He slapped the gesture away. “Spare me,” he said. “You had your chance to talk to me and you lied – fed me nothing but garbage and kept your secrets, all of which almost cost us our lives. Well, the humans have a saying about machinery: garbage in, garbage out. What you gave me, Vector Prime, is all you’re getting now.”

He turned and began to walk away.

\-----

“Whooo!”

Downshift grinned. “Ya like that, do ya?”

Kicker whooped and hollered again. “What’s not to like?” he asked. “The war is over, the ‘cons are gone, Earth is safe and I’m in one of the fastest cars on two worlds!”

They’d crossed the river and left the city limits minutes before, headed for the “no speed limit” zone to the south. It was a long, straight, flat stretch of road that carved deep into the grassy plains surrounding the Earthforce base. For Downshift, it was a little boring. He was perhaps the most skilled driver among the Autobots, and he lived for chicanes and tight curves. Kicker, however, seemed happy to just point the wheels in one direction and accelerate as fast as he could, for as long as he could.

Downshift checked his speedometer. They were travelling at more than 200km/h and the needle of his fuel gauge hadn’t so much as twitched. _The conversion process is working_ he thought happily. _Normal gasoline would have been burned up a while back, with the temperatures inside your average Autobot engine. Only Energon can give this level of performance… well, Energon and deutronium._

Not that he’d be playing with the volatile mineral again, anytime soon. In truth, he’d only just recovered from the extensive injuries he’d suffered racing in the Speedia Ultimate. Primus had seen to that, leaving him hale and hearty in a way he’d never been before. It was as if he’d just rolled off the assembly line, and he relished the feeling.

“Can we go any faster?” Kicker asked.

The Autobot smiled broadly. Like his brethren, he’d long been worried about their human friend. Kicker blamed himself for the Transformer presence on Earth and, at 21, spoke with the bitterness of a combat veteran. Ultra Magnus had told them their mission here was about salvage – not just of the Earthbase, but also of Kicker’s lost childhood. Downshift was ready to do whatever was necessary to make the kid happy, even if he was bored silly by straight driving.

“Faster?” he chortled. “That’d imply _this_ is fast… and Kicker, it’s dead slow compared t’ what we’re gonna do.”

He deactivated his steering and pedals, taking control of his alt mode once more. Fun and levity was one thing but, at high speeds, Downshift trusted only his own abilities. Kicker didn’t seem to mind – he wrapped a hand around the grip above the window and settled back into the upholstery.

Downshift engaged his turbo and they sprang forward, the world around them degenerating into speed lines. He couldn’t keep this speed up for long, he knew, but it would be long enough to lift the heavy heart of his friend. A minute after it began, the turbo boost ended miles from its starting point… not far away, in fact, from the base.

“Whooo!” Kicker yelled again. “What a rush!”

Something dark whipped past them, on the other side of the road. It was a large, black vehicle with an engine so powerful it made Downshift shake in place. There was a horrendous screeching of brakes and, in his rear scanners, the Autobot watched the semi-trailer almost jack knife as it tried to turn.

“What the frell?”

A dull chrome grille filled his vision as the truck swept around and started toward them. Downshift accelerated again, trying to gain some space, but it was to no avail – the rig moved impossibly fast despite its bulk. Within seconds it was on his rear fender, slamming into him and throwing Kicker around.

“I saw this in a movie once!” Kicker cried, trying to keep the fear out of his voice.

“A movie? Well, I wish it had stayed there!” Downshift yelled.

\-----

Vector Prime scooped up the data pad and smiled. “Art,” he intoned. “You are an artist as well as a journalist.”

Tow-Line flinched. No one, anywhere, had ever seen his art before. It was something he’d kept to himself for nine million years, buried away in hidden files within his archives of data pads.

“This is what you were doing, back on the plains that day,” the ancient mechanoid continued. “You were drawing the grassy surface of Earth.”

To be a good journalist, Tow-Line had to be totally objective. Art was the antithesis of that – a totally subjective pursuit judged solely on the opinion of he who viewed it. It made no sense, this contradiction in his very Spark. Yet he’d long ago stopped questioning it, and justifying it to himself.

“Now, you seek to capture the damage wrought by Soundwave as an aesthetic comparison… perhaps even a statement on the barbarity of war, or the effect Transformers have upon innocent worlds. _Fascinating_.”

Tow-Line angrily snatched the pad from his grasp. “You just don’t know _when_ to quit, do you?”

Vector Prime shook his head. “I’m afraid not,” he said. “A few cycles ago, a wise being taught me the value not only of pacifism, but also perseverance.”

The journalist sighed loudly and sat back down. “What do you want, Vector Prime?”

The other robot threw up a cloud of ash as he sat down. “As I said, I’d hoped we might be able to speak for a time,” he murmured. “Though my goals were noble, my means caused suffering and pain for your comrades… and for yourself.” He lowered his head. “I wish to… apologise… for my behaviour.”

Tow-Line snorted. “That’s supposed to make it better, is it?”

“I merely thought…”

“You _thought_ about something? Oh, that’s rich,” Tow-Line laughed bitterly. “If you’d thought, oh wise and ancient one, you’d have come clean with us from the very start. The only reason any of us are still alive is because of our own hard work – _not_ yours. The only reason any of the injured are still standing is because of Primus – _not_ you. What did you really achieve, besides giving the Planet Key map to Megatron and feeding us near-fatal half-truths, huh?”

“You blame me for your misfortunes.”

“Damn right. And more – I’m _embarrassed_. I defended you, pleaded your case in front of Ultra Magnus and the rest of the Earthforce. When they didn’t trust you, I was your biggest supporter because I thought you’d told me the truth. How the frell do you think I felt when you abandoned us? When Optimus Prime called you on your lies? Do you have any idea what ran through my processor when I learned my interview with you was total, utter bunk?

“If you’d been honest, Checkpoint wouldn’t have been perforated and Swerve wouldn’t have been crippled. Optimus and Magnus might still look like Transformers rather than some ultra-slick cyborg things, and none of us would have to suffer the knowledge that Rodimus is going to be leading the blasted charge someday!”

Vector Prime cocked his head to one side. “Are you angry with me, or with yourself?”

“What are you…”

“Listen to me, now,” he commanded. “I hear your words, and more – I hear the pain within them, the pain that haunts my own chassis. You and I are without purpose… lost for the sake of something to achieve. What does a war correspondent do without a battle? Worse, how can one be a pacifist when there is no violence to rail against? Most bitter of all, how can one be a journalist when there is nothing left to tell – when everyone is too happy to listen to criticism?

“Cybertron is free. Primus is real. The war is over. Our race’s future lies in other places – Animatros, Speedia, Gigalonia. Yet you have come here, to Earth, to dig through the ruins of the past and snuffle at the debris of loss and defeat. You are _wallowing_ in that which you know, rather than forging ahead with something new. Had I done that, Tow-Line, we would both be dead… Nemesis Prime would have killed us.”

He rested his hands on his knees. “You _are_ angry with me, Tow-Line… you would be a fool if you were not,” he said. “But a lack of forgiveness is not in your nature. It is caused by self-loathing, and you need to let it go.”

“Because it helps ease your conscience,” Tow-Line said.

“No. Because it helps cleanse your own Spark. Unicron may be gone, but its taint lives within us all. The challenge, now, is to stop it overpowering us.”

He heard a deafening _crash_ , then a shriek of fear. Tow-Line glanced around and saw Downshift speeding toward them. He was not alone – a massive semi-trailer was literally on his tail. With a mighty shove, it rammed into the fleeing Autobot, flipping him onto his roof. Downshift spun and scraped along the ground, coming to rest on his side in a ditch.

Brakes squealing, the truck ground to a halt. Tow-Line and Vector Prime watched as thin seams split its ebony metalwork and pieces of it moved and warped. The engine bay broke in two and shifted out, forming square, blocky shoulders. The hitch moved away from the trailer – which the journalist could now see was a fuel tanker – and extended into dark, stocky legs. By contrast, its body – formed by the underside of the truck – was trim and tapered, boasting a grey grille and two grey and black screens.

From out the grille swung an imposing head, which looped up and took its place between the missile-launcher shoulders. It looked like Optimus Prime – the mouth-plated heads were near identical. But Optimus carried an ion rifle… this Transformer hefted an Energon sword in its hand, to that wielded by Vector Prime. The fiery red of the sword gave off the creature’s only illumination – its armour was so black it seemed to swallow the light around it.

Tow-Line shuddered as a wave of fear surged through his chassis. “Nemesis Prime,” he whispered.

The creature glared balefully at him. “The typewriter and the stopwatch,” it growled. “Your Sparks belong to _me_ now.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _With special thanks to Newsy891, Drivaaar and Falcadore._

Tow-Line hated violence. A pacifist to the core, he truly believed conflict could be resolved without fighting. He’d spent his long existence trying to sway other Autobots to his way of thinking, urging them to consider negotiation… discussion… dialogue… before taking up arms.

He reached around his blocky torso and pulled a magnetic pulse cannon from its holster. In one swift motion, he emptied an entire clip of ammunition into the sinister shape before him. He did not pause upon hearing the empty _click_ of a spent magazine, simply slamming a second clip into place and firing, again and again.

In all his years, Tow-Line had not visited such violence upon another creature. In all his years, Tow-Line had not carried a weapon on his chassis. But, in all his years, Tow-Line had never feared anything as much as he feared Nemesis Prime.

Magnetic pulse cannons were supposed to polarise metal, causing it to warp and twist. The idea was the pulses would disable an opponent by restricting his movements, leaving them incapacitated yet functional. Tow-Line had seen the guns abused – most often in the hands of Decepticons – and turned into more horrific weapons capable of tearing limbs from unsuspecting victims.

He didn’t support such gruesome actions, of course. And yet, as he watched each pulse land on Nemesis Prime’s ebony back and dissipate without causing so much as a blister, the Autobot wished for a higher-yield weapon.

“Pathetic,” Nemesis Prime rumbled. His voice was as dark as his frame. “You are the oldest of the Autobots, yes? That a weakling could live such a long life beggars belief.”

He turned his attention back to Vector Prime, crossing swords with his eternal enemy. Red Energon blade clashed onto blue Energon blade, shaking the ground with their impact. Nemesis Prime looked calm, even comfortable, as he continued his assault. He wielded his deadly sword with one hand, effortlessly parrying Vector Prime’s two-handed strikes. Finally, the ominous entity flicked his wrist, neatly disarming his foe.

Nemesis Prime dropped his own weapon, drove his fists into the old Transformer’s midsection and doubled him over. He brought a knee up into his opponent’s face and sent him sprawling to the ground. “Stay there,” he commanded menacingly.

Tow-Line ran toward them, still firing the gun. One shot ricocheted off thick armour and plowed into the mech’s left little finger. The digit shimmered, just for a moment, then made a horrible noise and twisted around on itself. Nemesis Prime grunted, his concentration broken by the unexpected pain.

As he raised his arm to study the injury, Vector Prime struck. He grabbed the limb and sent a pulse of chronal energy into it. Tow-Line permitted himself a grim smile… the battle was over. Nemesis Prime may have been an imposing figure, but he had no sump for being the victim of violence. Just as he had last time, the brute would lose all composure as his form decayed, and flee.

“You continue to amuse me, Stopwatch,” the shadow murmured.

Tow-Line looked closer and, for the first time, saw the plate that ran the length of Nemesis Prime’s arm. The diamond-press metal would have formed his running boards in truck mode but, as a robot, they were personal forearm-mounted shields. One of the plates hummed and sparked under Vector Prime’s touch, the sound building in volume until it split the sky around them. The ancient Transformer was wide-eyed with horror but seemed unable to break away, as if magnetised to the limb.

The uncanny connection broke and Vector Prime tumbled away, jittering as if he’d been electrocuted. Tow-Line spared him but a glance as he was captivated by another sight. Nemesis Prime had spread his arms wide, tracing an arc of golden energy in the air. Images flashed and shimmered in it as the dark warrior laughed beneath it.

“My thanks for the gift,” he said.

The twins screens on his chest lit up, vomiting golden energy onto Tow-Line and Vector Prime. The journalist fought to keep his head above the cascading tide, but quickly lost his footing and went under, screaming.

\-----

Kicker tugged at the six-point harness lashed across his body. It had saved his life, but now it trapped him inside Downshift. And being stuck inside an unconscious, upside-down Autobot wasn’t on Kicker’s “to do” list… especially with a battle just metres away.

Had he more room, he’d have slapped himself in the forehead. “I don’t believe this,” he groused. “No wait, actually, I do. I totally and utterly believe it. Only the Autobots could defeat an evil from beyond the dawn of time and _forget_ to make sure his top flunky was also on the scrap heap!”

_You’re not angry with them_ , said a voice inside his head. _You’re angry at yourself… for bringing this war to Earth in the first place, and for daring to believe it was really, truly over._

He frowned, hating the fact his subconscious was right. Kicker had found and reactivated the Mini-cons, in turn sending the signal that had brought the Autobots and Decepticons to Earth. He’d developed the ability to sense Energon – the warring race’s basic fuel – causing both factions to madly scramble for the glowing goo. To top it all off, he’d agreed that salvaging the ruins of Earthbase was a good idea, ensuring there were still enough Autobots on Earth to attract psychotic giant black trucks!

“You would think I’d have learned my lesson by now,” he growled, savagely yanking on the uncooperative harness. “All I seem to ever learn is how blasted _stupid_ I am.”

They were close to Earthbase – tantalising close – but their location was no salvation. Although Ultra Magnus and Scattorshot were also on the planet, they were nowhere nearby, having left to investigate a strange energy reading to the north. Even if he'd had access to a functioning communicator, there was little chance of them returning in time.

Downshift moaned something unintelligible, which meant he was at least alive. Kicker knew he had to get out and get them both _away_ from Nemesis Prime. If that mech was even half as dangerous and half as crazy as they’d been told, he’d have no compunctions about swiping the Spark of a sleepy Autobot engineer.

“Please,” said a mechanical voice by his side, “allow me.”

A chunky fist punched through Downshift’s windshield, showering Kicker with glass. He threw his forearms over his eyes, deflecting the worst of it and wincing at the shards that jabbed him. Three stubby fingers squirmed under the harness and pulled back, snapping the webbing like tissue paper. Kicker stopped himself from falling and shifted around in the tight space, crawling out of Downshift’s ruined interior. Those same fingers wrapped around his shoulders and half-pulled, half-dragged him into the sunlight.

Kicker rolled and thudded onto the ground, glad he’d thought to wear his Cybertronian body armour beneath his clothes. “Thanks,” he grunted as he looked up.

The metallic being was barely taller than Kicker – perhaps seven feet to the human’s six. Its squat head was set down into its shoulders, while its rounded midsection, half-moon legs and stubby yellow feet gave it a slightly comical look. There was nothing comical, however, about its right arm – instead of ending with another four digits, it supported a thick silver cannon more than one and a half times the length of Kicker’s legs. Grimacing slightly, he stared into the chubby face – a black, horned dome split by a y-shaped visor – and hoped for the best.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Thanks… thanks for freeing me.”

The strange Mini-con cocked its head to one side. “Freedom is good,” it said lightly. Small red lights in its face pulsed with every syllable. “I like being free. Freedom is all too rare, but I like it. Liking something rare makes liking it twice as nice. It’s twice as nice as the black house of crooked angles, you know. I was there for an awful, awful long time and it’s not nice. No. It’s black and crooked.”

“Uh, right,” Kicker stammered, unsure of what to say. “I’ll make sure I don’t go there.”

“Oh, you can’t,” the Mini-con continued. “It’s not there anymore. And not in its usual sense of not being there, when it bops around and around from lilly pad to water spout, chasing spiders and Miss Muffett wherever she goes. You can’t even count sheep there, it’s so dark… so crooked you can’t lie down without something cutting you. Oh, how it cuts! Slices and dices and nips and tucks until you’re not sure who you are anymore.”

The Mini-con held up the cannon, pointing it right at Kicker. His whole head would have fit inside the cavernous barrel. “But it’s not there anymore and I’m free, free to be with my friend and to do all sorts of new stuff. I want to see the world, I want to go to Disneyland, I want to teach the world to sing and buy it a White Castle hamburger. Just one… because I have no money, you see. Do you have any money?”

“No,” Kicker said, trying to back away slowly. “But I can get you some, if it’ll help.”

“Oh yes,” the Mini-con said happily. “Please do.” Then he fired.

Kicker threw himself to the ground. The blast passed over his head and slammed into a rocky outcrop that jutted from the plains. Horrified, he watched as the rock evaporated, its very structure breaking down into its base elements. In seconds, it was a muddy pool of silt and sediment.

“Drat, drat, drat!” the Mini-con cried. “Shame on me for not hitting what I aimed at. I need to be called ‘Dead-Eye’ instead of Dead End, then I’ll shoot straight.” He looked down at Kicker and chuckled. “Shame on you for moving, you nervy little monkey,” he said, his voice rising higher and higher. “Papa spank!”

\-----

Tow-Line struggled to focus his optics. The golden light was everywhere, lancing into his sensors and glitching his processor. He knew Transformers couldn’t drown but, at the same time, was utterly convinced he was about to become the exception to the rule. Stamping down his panic, he diverted more power to his optics and forced them to pick up on their surroundings.

Something whipped past his head, howling madly and cursing someone called “Galvatron”. He caught but a glimpse of it – enough to see it was a Transformer – before it started to change. Its red and black chassis was swamped by the golden torrent and seemed to liquefy, then reshape itself into a new configuration. The black remained but was no longer the main colour. Most of the unfamiliar Transformer’s metalwork was now a bright yellow, as dazzling as the Earth insect called the bumblebee. The stranger locked optics with Tow-Line and cried out once more before it was swept away.

He wasn’t given a moment to think about it further. As his body spun and swirled, he realised he was lost – adrift – in the currents of time itself. Nemesis Prime had turned their own weapon against them and blasted them into… well, Matrix knew where. Desperately, his processor cried out for an anchor, for something familiar to cling to.

Abruptly he stopped moving. He’d been beached, thrown against a moment in time. His body was ghostly and intangible, and events seemed to move _through_ him, rather than around him.

Tow-Line was standing on a battlefield, somewhere on Earth. Strangely, the ground at his feet resembled Cybertron – more specifically Iacon – but the skies above were that deep blue you only found on Kicker’s home world. Missiles and munitions whizzed past, rocketing through him in a dozen places with no effect.

“Huffer, cover me while I reload!” someone cried.

Turning, he saw two Autobots – a mech and a femme – picking their way through the carnage. Neither looked particularly comfortable… as if they’d rather be behind desks or flight consoles than in the middle of a fire fight. He sympathised.

“Huffer?” the mech asked. “ _Huffer?_ ”

Tow-Line saw a small Transformer lying dead at the Autobot’s feet. Once upon a time, his bodywork had been orange and blue, and a large shield-like cowl had risen above his head. Now, the poor wretch was a mess. His legs were nearly pulverized; his chest was pockmarked with holes; flying shrapnel had ripped off half of his face and exposed the wires that powered his optics.

The femme ran to her fallen friend, cradling the near-lifeless chassis. Her head turned toward Tow-Line and he gasped in shock… he was looking _at himself_!

The shape of her bodywork, the colouring and basic design – this was a female Tow-Line, down to the last detail. He even spied a data pad slung on her hip, looking far less out of place than the small blaster she’d dumped on the ground. A journalist, just like him, trapped in a war she’d never wanted to be a part of. Grieving now, just as he was.

With a choke, the injured Autobot tried to speak. No sound came from his mouth… only a trickle of oil. His damaged optics flickered and darkened; his once bright orange and blue body dulled and stilled, fading into the dreadful steely grey of death.

The mech formed both hands into tight fists and charged back to the battle with an anguished, angry scream. Anything that looked like a Decepticon was pummeled, indiscriminately, with grenade after grenade. A second warrior – gold, like the chronal energy – joined the assault with several pairs of rockets. The femme journalist stayed by her dead comrade’s side, searching in vain for a sign of life.

Tow-Line reached out, gently laying an immaterial hand on her shuddering shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said noiselessly.

A hand, just as transparent as his own, wrapped around his mouth. “Be silent!” a voice hissed urgently. “You are outside of your own reality, my friend. Take no further action… this trespass should not be looked upon lightly, though it be not your fault.”

Golden energy washed over him again and, an astrosecond later, Tow-Line was back on the plain by the Earthforce base. He had the strangest sense he’d never actually left them… that he’d moved _sideways_ , rather than forward or backward. He struggled from Vector Prime’s grip – no longer insubstantial but crushing – and gasped for air.

“What just happened?” he demanded.

Vector Prime did not answer – instead, he grabbed Tow-Line’s arm and pulled him to one side, narrowly avoiding another blast of chronal energy. The journalist staggered to his feet, only to be sent flying through the air by a savage blow. As he landed, struts painfully bending on impact, he saw Nemesis Prime leap upon his long-time foe and attack, almost crazed, with fists and feet.

“You killed the Chaos Bringer,” he rasped, “but in doing so, you have only unleashed your ultimate destruction.”

\-----

“Rain is pouring, rain is pouring, down, down, down…”

Kicker tried to block out the singing. He scrabbled across the plains, wishing for some form of cover – any form of cover. The trees back by Downshift, on the side of the road, weren’t enough.

“Merrily we daa-aance, merrily we daa-aance…”

A shadow fell across him and he darted to one side. A massive swathe of earth slammed into the spot where he’d been standing. Dead End possessed strength far beyond that of any Mini-con that Kicker had encountered. Sadly, it wasn’t surprising – if there was any truth to his inane rambling, the pot-bellied ‘bot had spent eons trapped inside Unicron itself. That kind of power, that level of evil radiation, was bound to seep into nearby robots if given enough time.

“Ding dang dong! Ding dang dong!”

He heard gears mesh and plating shift. Dead End folded up into a small ball – like a miniature from a sci-fi movie – and streaked toward him, still firing his cannon. The first few blasts went wide, but the last evaporated the ground at his feet, and Kicker tumbled into a freshly made ditch.

Dead End’s alternate mode was silent. His synthesiser was not. “Ooh, he’s made the play for the plate and come up _just_ short,” he ranted. “Meanwhile, the main man is back on the plate.” The cannon hummed as tendrils of energy coalesced around its barrel. “Here’s the wind up, and _herrrrre’s_ the pitch…”

“Home run!” someone yelled. With a thunderous crack, a tree trunk slammed into Dead End and sent him soaring into the distance. The unbalanced mech screeched as he flew, totally out of control, far into the air and down hard onto the plains. Downshift stepped into view over the top of the ditch and offered his large hand to Kicker. His fingers were shaking, and much of his bodywork was dented. “Sorry I’m late,” he rasped. “Had a few problems figurin’ out which way was up.”

Kicker clambered up to ground level. “How… did you get… past Nemesis Prime?” he gasped, struggling for breath.

“Nemesis Prime?” Downshift looked puzzled. “You mean that truck? I thought he was a mammoth or something.”

Kicker gazed back across the plains, to where the battle had begun. His eyes widened, and a scream ripped from his throat.

“Tow-Line!”

\-----

As he watched the merciless beating, an unfamiliar emotion welled up inside Tow-Line. _Rage_.

His chassis shook with it, his processor filled with it. Here, in front of him, was the personification of it all. Nemesis Prime was one of the original Transformers. He’d been built to serve as the guardian of their Sparks – the mech that provided comfort and peace in death. Yet he’d been corrupted, twisted, by the very forces within his own body. Greed and ego had swayed him just as much as stupidity, ignorance and complacency were, even now, ruining the Autobots.

The towering obsidian robot was the very _personification_ of all the things that were ruining Tow-Line’s life… and he’d had his fill of them.

Still, there was no escape from them – not anywhere. He now knew that, despite all the other lies, Vector Prime had told the truth at least once. There _were_ other realities besides this one… places and times where events played out a little differently, where mechs and femmes were not the same as they were here. The knowledge was the source of both comfort and pain. Comfort, because his journalistic skills had uncovered at least _that much_ from the recalcitrant, deceptive, ancient Transformer. Pain, because he’d seen himself in another world… and still he suffered under the same foolishness.

There was no escape from it… any of it… and there never had been. As long as he’d lived, there had been war. It would continue for as long as he lived, of that he had no doubt. Were there a brief lull, he would become useless and be pigeonholed as bitter – attacked for expressing unpopular viewpoints. Slammed for the very things he had once been lauded. And even if things were different… were there a mighty city on these plains instead of ruined grass, shattered dreams and burned hopes… he would still be trapped in a cycle of violence and pain and death.

_Trapped_.

With an angry snarl, he threw his empty gun. It connected with the back of the giant’s head and, with a hollow clunking sound, bounced and fell to the ground. Nemesis Prime chuckled sardonically, and Tow-Line felt his wiring burn. Again he howled – as much at the world as at his enemy – and hurled himself bodily at the dark guardian.

Nemesis Prime held out his hand, snatching the smaller robot in mid-air. Steely fingers closed around Tow-Line’s head and held him still. “Slightly better,” he rasped as he stepped off of Vector Prime’s beaten body. “If anything, it proves you worthy of this.”

Peering between the black fingers, Tow-Line watched as Nemesis Prime’s chest cracked in half. Panels slid away to reveal a glowing red orb. The jewel was set into a sphere – circular on its outer edge and hexagonal on the inner – that bore two handles. Impossibly, the artefact was a deeper, darker black than the robot’s body. It looked like the Creation Matrix but, instead of instilling hope, it only increased the Autobot’s dread.

The jewel flared, sending crimson light cascading over Tow-Line’s body. He cried out as the glow tightened and focused on the centre of his chest, feeling something shift deep within his core. His Spark… his life force, his “soul”… was _moving_. It was being pulled, inexorably, from its place in his body and out toward the artefact.

“Hush, little one,” Nemesis Prime whispered, his tone a cruel parody of soothing. “Darkness gathers.”

Tow-Line tried to fight but, suspended as he was, could gain no leverage. All he managed to do was rock piteously, back and forth, and cry out mournfully. He could hear oil roaring in his audio sensors, feel his pumps and pistons squeal with exertion. Somewhere in the din, Kicker screamed his name, and massive footfalls thudded toward him – Downshift and Vector Prime, trying to come to his aid.

With a sickening clarity, he knew they would be too late… and realised how very badly he wanted to live.

Pain wrenched through his entire body, and the world shrunk into a black dot the size of a pinhead. There was a moment of brightness… of crystalline blue wrapped in fiery crimson… and then nothing.

\-----

“Tow-Line! _Tow-Line_!”

Kicker screamed and ran, ignoring the Autobots that overtook him. His eyes were glued to the elderly journalist as he bucked and shuddered in Nemesis Prime’s grip. Sweat poured into his eyes and tears flowed from them, yet he refused to blink. Because of this, he saw the exact moment Tow-Line’s Spark was ripped from his frame and absorbed by the black, dead Matrix.

“No!” Downshift yelled. “No frelling way!” He brought the tree-trunk down but it shattered ineffectually on impact. Raging, the engineer snatched up the broken pieces and threw then at Nemesis Prime, who ignored them and casually dropped Tow-Line. The journalist’s metalwork had faded to steel grey.

“One,” Nemesis Prime intoned. He fixed Vector Prime with a cold, hard stare. “Plenty of time for the rest, later. There is more than one way to own someone’s Spark, after all.”

Bellowing with fury and ignoring his injuries, Vector Prime leaped forward. His sword hissed through empty air… Nemesis Prime had triggered some sort of teleportation circuit and _vanished_.

“Come back!” the ancient Transformer wailed, his anguish keener than his blade. “Face me, you coward! Curse you a thousandfold! Come _back_!”

A flurry of shots was his only answer. Dead End, still curled into a tight yellow-and-black ball, zipped over them and peppered the plains with blasts. Forced to scatter, Kicker and the Autobots split in three directions. The human saw Downshift drop and roll, grunting with pain as he brought his Energon rifle to bear. As the weapon locked on, Dead End giggled and disappeared, whisked away by the same device as his partner.

The plains were silent… but only for a moment.

Vector Prime’s feet pounded a staccato beat as he ran toward Tow-Line. He gingerly lifted the dull grey body and cradled it, looking for signs of life where there obviously were none. Kicker felt ill. He’d seen death before, during this war, but not like this… not this horrible, wrenching theft of life.

“It’s not over,” he said, sullenly. “We find Nemesis Prime and we crack him open like a rusty hinge. Drag that fake Matrix out of him and put Tow-Line’s Spark back in his body. Just like Optimus and Ultra Magnus, back on Cybertron! He’ll be fine, won’t he, Downshift?”

A mouth plate hid most of the engineer’s face. Even so, anguish shone in his optics. “It doesn’t work that way, Kicker,” he said softly. “Not at all.”

“A Spark is a precious gift… a fragment of the cosmic forces that shape the universe,” Vector Prime said. His voice was thick with emotion, and every word quavered as it left his synthesiser. “Once extinguished, it can rarely be rekindled… and once inside a Matrix, it cannot be recovered.” He bowed his head and touched it to Tow-Line’s colourless frame. “I am so very sorry,” he breathed. “So very, utterly sorry.”

Hot, salty tears streamed down Kicker’s face. They pooled under his chin and dripped, one by one, to the dusty earth below. Not a single drop of that water could aid the parched, burned soil… and not an ounce of his pain could change the grim reality of his friend’s death.


End file.
